Spyro Condemned: Schism
by Dragon de Suenos Oscuros
Summary: Though Spyro had saved Avalar from being ripped asunder, he hadn't been able to piece it completely back together. The lands of Avalar, while not utterly destroyed, had fragmented, forcing the people to adapt to a world no one was familiar with. It could have succeeded were it not for the strange madness infecting Avalar's people.
1. Chapter 1

_The Prophecy Dragon and The Turncoat Dragoness will slay the Dark Master, and the people of Avalar will at first rejoice. But the people will sober from their rapture, for they will bear witness to the Schism with their hearts and minds, and they will gnash their teeth and curse the Prophecy Dragon-_

Ignitus slammed the crimson book shut, his turquoise scales rippling as he sought to control his anger. He felt as if the serenity he had once known was seeping out of him with every breath. The book he read, the one called Schism, went on in great detail about the oppression of his protege, his friend.  
Spyro didn't deserve this.  
Spyro had risked his young life innumerable times for the people of Avalar. He and the black dragoness, Cynder, had defeated Malefor, a dragon of terrible power; a feat that had transcended imagination. They had saved the world.  
They deserved praise, they deserved revelry.  
Above all, they deserved peace.  
This new age this book spoke of, this "Schism," told only of further hardships, of the separation of lands and the chaos ensuing. Told of an infection of insanity, of bloodlust.  
The more Ignitus read of the Schism, the heavier his heart grew. Yet he had forced himself to in the hope that he could find a way to help Spyro fight the madness that was swallowing Avalar.  
Where this madness had come from was something he could not discern.  
As a Chronicler of the Ages, Ignitus was limited in his contact with the physical world. He could appear in the minds of dreamers, or if the situation became desperate, make use of the translucent tuning crystal at his burgundy-swirled, wooden desk.  
The dreamers were not as receptive as of late.  
He ran his paw across his desk and looked about the chamber. He considered a walk outside, but thought better of it.  
The White Isle was an odd place, a sort of cross section where the spirit world and the physical world met. As such, he didn't venture its grounds much. While he found its ice-dappled, snowy sands beautiful, he was unnerved by the armored, skeletal ghouls that lurked about, restlessly searching for intruders to lethally test.  
He spent a majority of his time in the main chamber of White Isle's temple, where he could slake his thirst for knowledge from its many books. While he had more than once been intoxicated by the knowledge this place provided, he hadn't been aware of the loneliness that the position of Chronicler entailed (nor had he realized that he would- strangely- lose his former coat of crimson scales, much to his displeasure). Worse yet, a creeping cynicism had begun to form in the mind of the dragon; it felt as if the more he learned, the more he realized how little he knew.  
When he had first arrived, the ring of darkness around the main chamber had been like an ebony curtain to the horrors he once knew in life, an assurance that he had done his time, and that he need only concern himself with the history of dragons passed.  
Now it seemed that he couldn't keep enough light in the place. Ever since that accursed book had appeared, he found that he could no longer trust the darkness. Torches had been lit around the chamber, dampening the blue glow of the massive, gold-filigree hourglass centered in the room. He felt some semblance to the world he once knew having flooded the chamber with the pulsing, orange light of fire. It helped to some degree, but it didn't replace the comfort of being able to talk to his friend.  
When he had first taken the position as Chronicler, it was almost as if he had never left Spyro; their own dreams had become their rendezvous. Every night (almost every night, as Spyro sometimes insisted on privacy, for whatever reason), he and Spyro would talk and joke about little things, be it Volteer's incessant mouth, Cyril's growing pomposity, or Spyro's relationship with Cynder (which he had suspected was robbing him of Spyro's company on certain nights). It was a luxury that, before Malefor's defeat, could not be afforded in a world on the brink of death.  
But after awhile Spyro had started to become disturbed, his disposition less compassionate, more resentful. It seemed every night following became more and more of a struggle to contact his protege. He remembered the last conversation with Spyro:  
'Spyro, this isn't like you. I know the people have no right to treat you this way. You have every right to be angry. But it's not just anger-'  
'Don't say it, Ignitus,' Spyro had said, his head low, his voice beaten and bitter. 'The last thing I need to hear about is Malefor's little gift.'  
In the last dream that Ignitus and Spyro had shared, they had been standing atop a floating, stone platform in a black sea of stars. But these stars had not been the kind meant for gazing.  
They had been reduced to dark, bleeding pulses of red light. Squirming, red and black creatures crawled in and out of the dying stars, like worms through decay. Spyro himself had been cloaked in shadow, hiding the resplendence of his purple scales. Ignitus had seen the symbolism. Something else had been eating at Spyro.  
'What happened, Spyro? You can tell me.'  
Spyro raised his head up.  
Ignitus remembered his own fear, remembered the hurt he saw on Spyro. The same lecherous things within the stars had been eating him, leaving cankerous little furrows across his lean form. But it was his eyes that had terrified Ignitus.  
They were gone.  
'She said I scared her Ignitus,' Spyro had said, his voice choked. Tears glistened down from his hollow eyes. 'She said she saw him within me.'  
Ignitus remembered reaching out to console him, remembered the stone platform beneath him crumbling. He remembered falling into an infinite sea of black, empty and soundless, with no substance for his wings to catch. He had seen Spyro outstretching his arm towards him, growing smaller and smaller as he plummeted.  
He remembered bolting up from his slumber, calling out to Spyro, and feeling a heavy sadness when he realized that he could not comfort his friend. That had been the last time he had seen Spyro in their dreams.  
"Schism" had appeared a few months later.  
Ignitus' brow furrowed as he glared down at the book before him. He would have loved nothing more than to see it burn. He had to stop himself from breathing out an "accidental" huff of flame. He cast a sneer at the book before walking over to the looming stone bookshelf that bordered the chamber.  
Over time the books seemed to had taken on a personality; they gave off an aura that prickled certain parts of Ignitus' mind when he looked upon them. It made finding the right one rather convenient, or knowing when a new one had manifested.  
Ignitus stopped, his eyes fixed on a new book. This one was the darkest of ebon, with a single, solid white eye embossed on the spine.  
Ignitus canted his head and took it from its space, looking over its cover. Like the spine, it had that peculiar, light-absorbing blackness, with a matching white eye in its center. Ignitus brought it over to his desk. He brushed Schism to the side and gave it a spiteful glower before returning his attention to the new book.  
He opened it.  
On the center of the first page were two words written with an angry, angular hand in black:  
WARNING: HELL  
He turned to the next page.  
WARNING: HELL  
The next.  
WARNING: HELL  
He flipped through the book, the words never deviating. When he reached the final page he found an elegantly written message, as if to mock the ugly penmanship before it:

_You said it yourself Ignitus.  
When a dragon dies, it does not truly leave this world. Its spirit lives on; binds itself with nature._

A small wail came from behind him, weak at first before heightening into a cacophonous song.  
He read the last sentence:

_Hope, however, will be buried with the dead._

He looked behind.  
He wrenched his head away, grabbed the tuning crystal from his desk and sped from the chamber. He had only caught a glimpse of the thing behind him.  
_So many eyes,_ his mind rambled. _So many eyes in the dark._  
It was as if damnation itself had manifested in his very chamber. Being around the presence seemed to bring out every nightmare in his subconscious, challenge his every hope, make him weep with an anguish so deep that he thought his heart would give up and die. For a brief moment he thought he had sensed Malefor, and while the presence behind him radiated a lust for destruction, it did not carry a distinct personality.  
His sense direction had become mangled in the murk of desperation, his fours padding rapidly across the stone floor. All he was focused on was creating distance between him and it.  
He could still hear those wailing, lusting cries behind him. He didn't know if fire could hurt it, nor was he willing to risk it. He ran down the stairwell, nearly losing his footing but recovering as he reached the bottom. He turned haphazardly down the winding stone corridors, seeking as much variation as he could.  
He ran until the wailing behind him had died. He found an arched, wooden door and sealed himself in. The room he was in was a modest resting chamber; barren yet clean. There was a window with wooden shutters, but it was too small to fit through.  
His first priority was to warn Spyro and his comrades.  
He clenched the tuning crystal in his paw and closed his eyes. He forced his mind's eye to summon the most vivid details about Spyro, about Cynder, the unlikely black-dragon ally, about Terrador, his green and gold, battle-scarred brother-in-arms, about every one connected to them, summoning their scent, their speech, their idiosyncrasies, their touch, their hopes and sorrows.  
The wailing rose in the distance.  
He redoubled his concentration. He focused them into a collective essence and latched onto that composition before envisioning it within the crystal. The crystal thrummed in response, and after a moment, displayed an array of images closest to what he had envisioned.  
His heart sunk.  
His perceptions no longer held the same relevance they once had. He saw broken silhouettes within the crystal, like shadows within a shattered mirror.  
_Have they changed so much since the Schism?_  
He let out a weary sigh and spoke his message. "This is Ignitus! To anyone listening, I'm a friend of Spyro! He must be warned! He must know that it's not over!"  
The wailing intensified into a grinding screech. He backed away from the door and turned to the window. He reeled from it.  
The window's shutters had been sewn closed by thatched tendrils of pulsing stone and wood, gurgling and throbbing like prey within a snake's belly. He fought for his voice over the warbled screams and his own rising terror.  
"_IT FOUND ME! I DON'T HAVE MUCH TIME_!"  
The door was ripped asunder in a shower of splinters. The thing that entered consumed all light, with only its thin, white eyes gleaming in the absolute night. Ignitus roared:  
"_YOU MUST NOT FORSAKE HIM! SPYRO TRUSTED YOU_!"  
The last thing the tuning crystal picked up was the sound of Ignitus' screaming merging with the hellish song.


	2. Chapter 2

"This is...anyone listening...friend of Spyro...must be warned...it's not over!"  
The green dragon, Terrador, narrowed his jade eyes at the tuning crystal atop his stone table. His scales were mottled with yellow, his faded gold horns and chest-plating marred with slashes and gouges; a testament to battles hard-won.  
"...NOT FORSAKE HIM!" the tuning crystal shrieked. "SPYRO TRUSTED YOU!"  
Terrador picked up the tuning crystal and looked to the dragoness before him for answers.  
Her head was a crown of curving ivory, her chest-plating a contrasting fuchsia to her ebony scales. Three, round-angled triangles had been branded onto her forehead, a scarred reminder of who had once held her imprisoned.  
A frown formed on her narrow muzzle. "I received the message this morning," Cynder explained, her voice barely carrying the traces of youth. "There was too much distortion...The voice seems familiar, but I can't place it."  
Terrador put down the tuning crystal and dry-washed his paws. "Any idea of who this person might be? Why he called you?" He thought the voice familiar, but like Cynder, he had a hard time placing it. Then again, memory had been a fickle mistress ever since the Schism.  
Cynder shook her head. "No."  
Terrador grunted. He looked about his austere study room, its smooth stone walls illuminated with hazy, red sunlight. He turned around and peered through the room's single arched window. It darkened before his shadow. "Where is Spyro now?"  
Next to Cynder was a bi-pedal creature with a gaunt, feline face, his fur dark blue beneath his loose cowl and drab robes. He leaned on his staff, his head bowed. His voice was aired and raspy. "We're not sure," the creature known as Hermit said. "It's been eleven months since he caused the Schism-"  
"_That wasn't his fault_!" Cynder snapped. "I was there. If it weren't for him, we'd all be scattered about the stars right now."  
Hermit sneered. "As opposed to rotting away on a broken world?"  
Cynder's lip curled. Hermit cast her a cautious glance before continuing. "Nevertheless, he resigned himself from the alliance and disappeared." He cackled. "Probably passed out in some valley."  
Cynder growled low at Hermit, whom scowled in return. Terrador turned his head from the window and held out a splayed paw; a subtle command for order. The big dragon found it unnecessary to raise his voice. He shook his head at Hermit. "Unlikely. A dragon like that doesn't just lie down quietly." He sat and rubbed his jaw as he thought, glancing at Cynder and Hermit. "Alright. Let's find Spyro and bring him in."  
Cynder and Hermit bowed before leaving Terrador's study room. He watched their departure before returning his pensive gaze to the window.  
The eyes within the tuning crystal had rung a haunting note within him.

{{}}

The Dragon City had long been a shame to its former glory. The once whitewashed stone was cracked with unruly patches of grass, blemished in a wide spectrum of grunge. The metalwork was splotched with rust, as if a cancer had coursed its way throughout the architecture. Wiry, rusted fencing wrapped the parameter of the buildings, providing a flimsy degree of protection against the rabid citizens infected by the Schism. One shambled building in particular provided many a vice to help deal with the horrors the Schism had birthed.  
One such patron was partaking of them right now.  
Spyro slammed his mug down on the green slivers of crystal upon the bar table. They powdered beneath the blow.  
One of the side effects of the Schism had been the tainting of the crystals. At first it was barely noticeable, but as dragons sought to replenish the energies necessary for magics, they began to receive more and more diminishing returns. Eventually, the taint took on physical characteristics in the form of dark streaks; the black crystal that siphoned from a dragon his energy to perform magic.  
Nowadays, the green crystals gave only the slightest of returns, and most of the time it was cut with impurities that synthesized the energy, gave the mind a false reservoir, only for a dragon to come down off the high and fall into the deepest of lows. Some died from an over-expenditure of magic.  
Spyro didn't care.  
He cupped his leather-wrapped paw around the crystal powder and shifted it off the bar table into his stringent ale. He downed the ale in a single gulp and wiped his maw.  
Nestled away in the tavern were three Cheetahmen behind a wire mesh. They were the music, and as such, were a precious commodity in a brutal world.  
An ominous, thrumming bass accompanied with a clanging, bell-like percussion revved itself to life:  
The lyricist had a grungy, smooth tenor:

_"Gather round the table  
Come and watch me rock  
I'm like Malefor on a filthy whore"_

Spyro considered disemboweling the lyricist for that verse. He thought better of it; this was the only tavern he knew of to get ale.  
His once brilliant, purple scales had darkened to a bruised blue. The gold of his horns, dorsal, and chest-plating had been muted by stress and malnourishment. Any softness his face once carried was now hardened and angular, his brow in a perpetual scowl. Both of his blue eyes had dark, vertical scars, while the rest of his sinuous form resembled a road map of past wounds.

"Gonna pound that bitch along with whiskey shots  
Till you have to sweep me off the floor"

The owner of this establishment, a thin, burnished red Cheetahman, raised an ear to a peculiar vibration. He turned around, the tuning crystal quivering. He picked it up and put it to his ear. He heard a voice; it was choppy, distorted:  
"_...friend of Spyro...warned...not over...NOT FORSAKE...TRUSTED YOU..._"  
_Eyes_? the Cheetahman thought as he peered into the tuning crystal. _The hell_? He turned his scrutiny towards the young gristly dragon, whom was lost in his own mug. He looked familiar.  
Spyro...  
The Cheetahman's jaw dropped. Surprise turned to suspicion. He walked over to the dragon and tossed the tuning crystal at him. "It was for you. Make any sense of it?"  
Spyro gave the tuning crystal a glance and shook his head. "Not now."  
The Cheetahman sneered. "Fine." He snatched the tuning crystal off the bar. "But if he calls again, I'm shrouding the damn thing. I'm not some fuckin' courier."  
Spyro eyed him indifferently and shook his mug, indicating that the Cheetahman shut his mouth and fill his cup. The Cheetahman huffed, snatched the mug, and put it below the tap. The dragon was a paying customer at least. He set the mug down before the dragon and tallied up the bill.  
Spyro sighed, readying himself to descend into another level of inebriation. His shoulder was bumped by a passing patron, sending his ale splashing upon the bar. He turned.

_"Plop, plop, fizz, fizz...  
What a drunken draak he is..."_

The miscreant was unlike anything he had ever seen. He looked like a small, flat-faced hairless ape, his head obscured by a black hooded shirt. His hands were pocketed in black, baggy trousers with matching leather boots. He blew a taunting kiss and winked.  
Spyro's mind blackened with rage. He tackled him, caving his face in with a clenched, leather-wrapped paw, over and over, feeling the skull give way to the pulpy innards of brain and blood. He wasn't sure how many times he had struck him. His anger subsided, only to find that he had been hitting stone floor.  
His bloodied fist, however, told another story.

_"C'mon, bring it on back now  
Yeeeaaah"_

He heard the distinctive click of a crossbow being loaded. He turned around. The Cheetahman had the weapon aimed at his head.  
"Get out!"  
Spyro lowered his head and rolled his shoulders.  
The Cheetahman's face twisted into a snarl. "_Now_."  
Spyro tilted his head. He knew this Cheetahman.  
Prowlus.  
Spyro mouthed the name to himself. This was the same Cheetahman that had imprisoned him, Cynder, and his friend Sparx under the suspicion of a prejudice. It took saving Prowlus' entire village and rescuing one of his villagers to get the bastard to come around.  
And now he had a crossbow at Spyro's head.  
Prejudice died hard, apparently.  
Spyro smirked wryly. "Hey Prowlus," he said as he made his way out of the tavern. Prowlus narrowed his eyes. Spyro turned and said, "Tell your bitch Meadow I said 'Hi.'"  
The flesh beneath the Cheetahman's face blanched.  
Spyro slammed the tavern door shut and slumped upon the stairwell. He ran a paw down his muzzle and gazed at his darkened reflection within an oily puddle. He shook his head in disgust. _That's me, Spyro. Drunk, tired, and pissed off. Why_?  
He clenched his bloodied, leather-wrapped paw, quaking in rage before he reared his arm back and cratered the step next to him with a feral roar. _Because when the world went to hell after the Schism, the people needed a scapegoat. And who better than the one bearing the same scales as Malefor_?  
He leaned his head back. _I try to tell myself that they don't know any better. That they weren't there. All they knew were their quaint little worlds, and when the savior Spyro couldn't deliver the ideal existence, they had to find away to divert the despair, channel the horror that came with having to deal with a world living on the frayed ends of sanity._  
He stared down at his oddly shaped paws, at the blood-smeared leather wrapping that tied his elongated fingers together. The wrapping made them feel like his old paws again. He couldn't wrap the thumb though.  
The thumb was what disturbed him the most.  
He shook his head and gave a shuddered breath. His thoughts wandered again. _I could have dealt with that, could have dealt with that just fine_.  
Fire flared from his clenched teeth. _Of all the people to fall out, it had to be you, didn't it Cynder? But I know why...you didn't want to associate me with him_ The dragon gave a sad chuckle. _I scared you...no...He scared you_.  
And that was where Spyro himself was confused. There was him, and then there was that other side. But how much of that other side was really like Malefor? If it weren't for Spyro, the whole Spyro, the only thing Avalar would have known was oblivion.  
His chuckling rose to hysterical laughter. _Yes...had I just let him blow the whole damn thing apart, I wouldn't be sitting here bitching and moaning to myself, wouldn't be cast out from society, wouldn't live in a world hellbent on killing itself_. He found a dark corner to nestle himself in, letting his sad laughter lull him to sleep.  
A voice, gruff yet familiar, pulled Spyro from his drunken slumber. "Too damn cold to be sleepin' in the mud. Dunno if I can help you up but maybe..." The voice halted. "Spyro?"  
Spyro fought the dryness of his mouth and the crust of his eyes. Slowly, the small, floating figure before him became distinct. He squinted. "Sparx?"  
Sparx, too, was a shadow of his former self. Spyro could recall when the dragonfly radiated a golden aura, when his facial features were soft, his eyes bright and blue. Now the dragonfly's glow had dimmed to a tarnished green, his face gaunt and sharp. Sparx, however, still carried that shit-eating grin. "Whew," he said, "good to see you, but..." He sniffed and put a thumb and finger to his nose, "I got to tell you: you smell worse than I do, and I've been sleepin' in garbage!"  
"Hey!" Spyro snarled, giving Sparx a clawed middle finger. "Screw you!"  
Sparx put his hands up. "Whoa! Damn Spyro, you's a mean drunk. A real Grade-A asshole."  
Spyro sighed and shook his head. "So they keep telling me."  
Sparx rubbed his chin. "Hey," he said, beckoning Spyro along, "no need for us to be enemies. As a matter of fact, I've got just the thing for this reunion."  
Spyro raised an eyebrow. "What thing?"  
Sparx chuckled, his yellowed eyes glinting with mischief. "Got a secret stash just up ahead. Keys ain't the only thing your pal Sparx is good at snatchin'."  
Intrigued, Spyro followed the dragonfly down the narrow, grunge-choked alley, its strewn refuse like a garden of filth illuminated by a red overcast. "What is it?" he asked. "Tell me."  
Sparx gave Spyro a conspiratorial grin. "Mead, man. Real high-brow shit."  
Spyro's face brightened. "That'll be a nice change from the piss Prowlus calls ale."  
Sparx barked a laughed. "How do you know it isn't piss?"  
Spyro gave the dragonfly a sideways stare. "Don't tell me that shit Sparx. Not now."  
Sparx snickered. The alley widened between two buildings, revealing a squared off section of wired fencing. The fence door was barely perceivable in the rusty, steel mesh, with only a single column of steel to indicate any kind of latch or hinge.  
"Just through here," Sparx said. "Just got to-"  
Spyro grabbed the door and ripped it from its hinge; it gave a rattling squeal. The dragon tossed it aside.  
"Open the door..." Sparx said, his eyes shifting between Spyro and the destroyed door.  
Spyro entered and panned his gaze around the fenced area. "My head's killing me Sparx. Where's this stash of yours?"  
"Aight', aight'," Sparx assuaged, flying over to a wedge of stone upon the grass-choked cement. He searched for a holding, and with surprising strength shifted it from its space.  
It was an alcove with nothing inside.  
Sparx's jaw dropped. He looked up, his face twisted with rage. Just outside the fenced area were darkly clothed, sleeping figures. Spyro wondered why he hadn't detected them beforehand. He considered the foul, acrid smell of the place; it didn't seem that much of a surprise.  
Sparx turned his attention to the lying figure in front of him. He flew at the gate and rattled it. "MOTHAFUCKA! Those were mine! Wake up!"  
The figure rose in a slow, deliberate motion.  
Spyro's heart jumped. It was the same hairless ape from the tavern, unscathed, despite the fact that half of his skull should have been spattered about the bar. Shadows streaked across the man's face as he rammed his hands against the gate. "_Stinkin' drunks_." The man's voice was deep, dismembered, charged with some otherworldly power. The man spread his arms, welcoming confrontation. "_Couple of losers_."  
Spyro struck the fence with his palm and jabbed a clawed finger at the man. "Why don't you come say that to my face?"  
The man grinned, revealing his discolored teeth. "_Should have killed you off a long time ago_." The man turned from Spyro and Sparx and walked over to one of the sleeping figures. He kicked one in its side. "_GET UP_!" the man roared. "_ALL OF YOU_!"  
They rose, one by one, like the dead to a celestial call.  
Spyro assessed them, seeing the toll that the Schism had taken upon the three Cheetahmen They bore scars that glistened with infection beneath manged, blood-crusted fur. Two were missing ears, with only shredded flaps of skin remaining. One was missing an eye, with a streak of dried blood running down his cheek. The Cheetahmen's identities were gone, sullied by the desperation of survival. They recognized Spyro. They withdrew worn, dark-stained blades from their thick, mildewed robes.  
"Uh, Spyro," Sparx suggested, "maybe we should get outta here."  
The Cheetahmen cleared the fence, landing with a slight bend at the knees. The one in front hissed, his fangs yellowed and broken. "Here lizard, lizard, lizard, lizard."  
"Purple bastard," another said as he skulked out of Spyro's field of vision. "Had to kill us slowly, didn't you?"  
"Should stick your head on a fuckin' pike," another rumbled as he moved to the other side of Spyro vision.  
A cold, black rage burned within the dragon. _No good deed goes unpunished_. A keening laughter came from Spyro's diaphragm. He saw an overhead strike come from his periphery. He shifted up and pivoted his torso away from the blade's trajectory. He lunged at the Cheetahman and drove his clawed paw into its abdomen. He felt the meat, reached in, and clenched.  
The Cheetahman squealed. Spyro rose up on his haunches, lifting the Cheetahman up and around into the other two attackers.  
"DAMN!" Sparx said. "Bad ass...disturbed mov'fucka."  
The thrown, disemboweled Cheetahman toppled one of the attackers. The other weaved out of the way and drew his blade back.  
The Cheetahman would regret the telegraph.  
Spyro threw himself at the assailant, pinning his elbow and shoving him against the fence. He reached under the Cheetahman's jaw with a clawed paw and wrenched it up. He clamped his teeth around the Cheetman's throat, his neck muscles cording as he severed the its jugular and spat it to the side. He let the gurgling Cheetahman lie.  
The other attacker was struggling to get the bulk of his gutted, wailing accomplice off him. "Squealin' like a stuck bitch!" he shouted.  
Spyro curled his lips back, his bloodied fangs garish beneath the sun. "_Join the choir_."  
The Cheetahman's eyes went wide as Spyro barreled down upon him. He rammed his paw into the Cheetahman's face, his talons piercing its eyes. They gave a slight pop as blood and vitreous humor leaked out from them. The Cheetahman's roar shook the air. Spyro squelched it with a flurry of blows across its face. He smothered its muzzle against the ground and tapered his talons, driving them into the Cheetahman's ribcage, his arm crackling with electricity as he channeled current into his assailant's chest  
The Cheetahman's scream became a macabre, rattling song as he racked him with power. After a moment the death-song faded along with the Cheetahman's life. Spyro dislodged his paw from the Cheetahman's chest and shook off the blood. He stopped and turned as he heard panicked screaming from behind him.  
The disemboweled Cheetahman was crawling away from Spyro, his cursing throttled by a mixture of fear, anger and agony. "No, no, no, no, sick bastard, get away from me, you ain't no savior you're just like Mal-"  
Spyro's maw opened. A sphere of glacial energy shot out and struck the Cheetahman. A plume of vapor erupted from the impact, along with the crackling and clinking of ice. The vapor cleared, leaving shattered pieces of flesh and bone.  
Spyro sneered at the Cheetahman's remnants. He turned his attention back to the one he had electrocuted. "Nice staccato, asshole."  
Sparx saw the black-bedecked man emerge from the shadows with a steel pipe in his black, gloved hands.  
"LOOK OUT!"  
A sharp, ringing pain exploded from the back of Spyro's neck, accompanied by flashing motes of white and red across his vision. His body went slack.  
The man loomed over him, his head teetering, mocking. A sickening sensation came over Spyro, one of disconnection, as if he were being separated from himself. Squirming black tendrils creeped up from the borders of his vision. The man's visage warped and shifted, as if Spyro were looking up at him from beneath a pool of rippling water.  
The man spoke to him, his voice drilling inside Spyro's head. "_Ready to have some fun_?"  
The man brought the pipe down upon Spyro.  
And then the world truly went mad.


	3. Chapter 3

Spyro felt a forlorn calm wash over him. It saddened him that it had taken death to earn a rest, though he was used to injustice at this point. The subtle undertow of a thought pulled at the dragon's drifting mind:  
_Oh, that's just rich. Defeat the all-powerful Malefor only to be done in by a hairless ape with a pipe? Get up_.  
Spyro's eyes shot open.  
The fenced area he was in began to sharpen into vision. He felt the back of his head, which responded with a barrage of stinging pulses. A concussion, no doubt, but he was walking at least.  
Sparx was nowhere to be found.  
"Figures," Spyro muttered. He made his way out the exit that he had so viciously created. He didn't think flying would be the best of ideas at this point, as he was willing to bet that his equilibrium was currently shot to hell.  
The sun had been smothered beneath a smoky, bellowing overcast, creating a false dusk. He pulled himself onto the raised stone walkway merged into one of the buildings. He could barely make out the fenced door at the end of the walkway. He struck it open.  
He found himself in some sort of inner-city labyrinth; a series of narrow alleys and buildings with barred windows and tiered fire escapes. It was like looking upon some sort of citified hive. He walked past an abandoned mirror shop.  
A glimmer of light caught his attention.  
He turned and saw a barred window. Within it was an obsidian mirror bordered with intricate, swirling handwork. An image flickered to life: the grayish silhouette of a dragon was nailed to a cross, its deadened, sorrowful face hung low, its wings slackened, destroyed. Above the dragon upon a sepia background were the words:  
WARNING: HELL  
The image flickered into darkness.  
And then Spryo saw him. He had his back turned to Spyro at first, yet he instantly identified the guttural rasp:  
"_Ignoring that call from Ignitus was foolish and you know it_."  
Spyro's Other turned to him, its clawed paws held to his chin, as if he were in thought. His scales were the darkest of blue, and his eyes shone like narrowed moons. "_Forget about the past, your self-indulgent sense of failure, how he sacrificed his life in vain_."  
Spyro choked back a torrent of emotions. His Other was indifferent. "_Find him. He's the outsider looking in, and right now, that's all you've got_."  
Spyro's Other flickered out of existence. He felt two paws on his shoulders whirl him around. Ignitus sat before Spyro, the elder dragon's head hung low, his breathing labored and wheezing. The shock of seeing the deceased dragon, Spyro's mentor and friend, had overwhelmed Spyro past the point of emotions. He trembled as Ignitus reached out and put a gentle paw to the side of the young dragon's face.  
"Ignitus," Spyro whispered, "what-"  
Ignitus raised his head and dug his claws into Spyro's cheek. Fear paralyzed him as he gazed upon the bastardized representation of Ignitus. The white irises of its black eyes convulsed within its head. Oily tears ran down its cheeks and dribbled off its jaw. The false Ignitus jerked as a hacking cough shook him. Its maw opened, and a phlegm-drenched roar darkened Spyro's vision with blackened blood.  
Spyro recoiled, frantically wiping the from his face. When his vision returned, the false Ignitus was gone. He peered down at his leather-wrapped paws.  
_The hell was that supposed to mean_? His breathing halted.  
_Mean...meaning...no. No, don't tell me this is a vision, I don't want this._ He looked down at the pavement, his breathing short. An oily smear led to the mirror shop's entrance.  
_Let this be a nightmare_. He stared at the black door to the mirror shop before entering.  
_Let it be over with_.  
The interior of the shop was made of a gray stone nicked and stained with neglect. Tarnished shelves displayed an array of mirrors and other nicknacks carelessly arranged. The faint illumination from the barred window divided the room into yawning stripes of light and shadow.  
A shelf was sent toppling with a ringing crash of glass. A shirtless, manged Cheetahman hopped over it and surged towards Spyro with a pipe held high above his head. Spyro lunged at him, meeting the strike before it could manifest and wrenching the pipe from the Cheetahman's hand.  
The pipe sung as Spyro connected it with his assailant's jaw. The Cheetahman's teeth clattered against Spyro's scales. The Cheetahman let out a muffled cry as he cradled his jaw. He released it, the mandible swinging loosely from its destroyed hinges.  
"UCKAH!" the Cheetahman cursed from its disfigured mouth. He dove at Spyro again, only to be greeted with another strike across his temple. The Cheetahman's body poured upon the ground in a deathly heap.  
Spyro tossed the pipe upon the corpse and continued on. He entered an open doorway into another room, where light poured faintly from the stained, narrow windows of a clerestory. This room wasn't much different from the previous, with the exception of one particular mirror. Nestled into the corner of the room was another obsidian mirror upon a black, table-clothed stand. Spyro approached it.  
WARNING: HELL  
Spyro stood face to face with his Other, whom regarded Spyro with a knowing smirk.  
"_You can sense it, can't you? Oh sure, at first you were distracted by the chirpy birds and buzzing bees, with your girl at your side and the sun beaming down with a shit-eating grin, all the while it was there...spreading...infecting_."  
The Other looked away for a moment before returning his gaze to Spyro. "_It's not just a matter of scapegoating. Something residual got left behind in Malefor's last effort to kill the world, and guess what? You're the source of that hate_."  
A sepia background of Dragon City's derelict buildings wavered into view behind the Other.  
"_You know better than most that there's scum in this city. Violent, hateful, fucking insane scum. Compassion will get you nowhere now. Kill first, or be a rotting corpse in something's gut_."  
The Other disappeared.  
A voice roared from behind Spyro. "MAKIN' THE WORLD A BETTER PLACE?"  
Spyro evaded the thrown mirror aimed at the back of his head. The Cheetahmen sprinted at the dragon, his arms flailing as he clubbed at the dragon with closed fists, howling with an unbridled rage.  
Spyro rammed his head into the Cheetahman's gut. The Cheetahman reeled, cradling his abdomen. Wheezing, he lunged again, only to be intercepted with a raking fist across his jaw. The Cheetahman spun from the blow, barely keeping himself on two legs. "FUCKER! he shrieked between clenched teeth, his eyes manic and wide. Spyro leaped at the Cheetahman, rearing his arm back and ripping the Cheetahman across the face with a clawed paw. There were remarks this time, only a woozy, angry incoherence as the Cheetahman slumped upon his fours. Spyro spun, tail-whipping the Cheetahman and sending him tumbling across the room. He rolled onto his back, stilling, staring up at the ceiling with glassy eyes. Little dark rivers ran from his mouth.  
Spyro let out a weary breath and made his way to the next door; it revealed an ascending stairwell, its corridor walls snaking with vandalism as he went up. At the top of the stairwell to his right was a small hall. On the left side of the hall was a long, frosted, rectangular window. A gray, metal door was set to the right-end of the window.  
He heard crazed laughter and pattering feet as he approached the door. Two figures threw themselves at the window, pounding it with fists and laughing as they smeared their heads against the glass.  
They left black, oily streaks.  
The figures dislodged themselves from the window and ran off. Spyro, unfazed by the display, walked to the end of the hall and pushed at the door.  
Locked.  
Spyro took a few steps back, lowered his head, and rammed it.  
The door burst open with a metallic squeal. Spyro stood before the entrance, his eyes scanning for movement. Apparently, the Cheetahmen were starting to realize the folly of attacking the dragon outright. The room was utterly silent, but Spyro knew they were there, waiting in obscurity, as if this were some lethal game of hide and seek.  
Spyro's footfalls landed mutely upon the cement. He kept himself loose yet alert, his eyes aware of everything and distracted by nothing. He was approaching a stone pillar at the end of the room when he saw the glint of a hefty, clawed hammer swing out from behind the pillar.  
Spyro ducked, inhaled, and breathed out a cloud of freezing air. Icy crystals sprouted from the Cheetahman's feet and crackled their way up, stopping just below the Cheetahman's abdomen. The hammer clattered upon the ground. The Cheetahman squealed in panic, wrenching his torso in the futile hope that he could break his legs' icy prison.  
Spyro picked up the hammer, drew back his arm, and swung.  
The Cheetahman's legs shattered with the blow, and his torso fell from them, his teeth clacking as he hit the ground and perforated his tongue with his own fangs. Spyro drove the clawed end of the hammer into the Cheetahman's skull, only to hear the footfalls of another attacker behind him. Spyro noticed a chunk of ice with a sharpened end; a frozen remnant of the slain Cheetahman's thigh.  
Spyro's leather-wrapped paw snatched up the pointed ice. He spun around and pierced it through his attacker's belly. The Cheetahman bowed and cried out as Spyro tore the ice-shiv from his stomach and sliced it across his throat. Spyro pushed his attacker aside, who made a few gurgled attempts at breathing before falling into silence. Spyro tossed the ice-shiv upon the corpse.  
He reassessed the room. Finding it devoid of threat, he made his way to the open window at the end of the room. Approaching it, he saw the black iron platform of a fire escape. He opened the window and climbed out, taking cautious steps across the fire escape's shaky platform. Spyro looked over the railing. He caught his breath.  
He saw Ignitus' red tail turn the corner of a building.  
"Ignitus!" Spyro called out. "Wait!"  
Spyro swiftly made his way to the stairs.  
The squealing whine of metal preambled the platform's collapse. Spyro found himself sliding on his rump and tumbling off as the resounding clang of metal meeting stone quaked the air. Spyro rolled away, looking up at the dismembered fire escape in shock.  
"Fucking Manweresmalls," Spyro said in disbelief, "can make a siege engine but a not a decent goddamn fire escape."  
Spyro got to his feet and darted down the alley after the crimson dragon. As he ran, doubting thoughts began to assail him.  
_Do you really care Spyro? Or do you just want the nightmare to end_?  
_Shut up_.  
_Maybe it's guilt then_?  
_Shut up_.  
_Ignitus died because you couldn't handle some hellfire_.  
_SHUT UP_.  
_But don't worry about penance_.  
Spyro turned the corner.  
_Because hell is bountiful here_.  
Ignitus' wasn't there. Instead, an oily blackness had been smeared down the center of the stone alley. Rusting garbage receptacles lined the alley, where it ended in a T-section some few dozen paces away.  
A pair of black, bi-pedal creatures streaked across the alley in opposing directions, leaving a light trail from their white, burning eyes.  
Spyro's body tensed. Warily, he made his way down the alley, his nerves threatening to jangle him at the slightest stimulus. Spyro reached the end of the T-section, and looked left.  
A wall of oil ran down from the top of the building in thick stretches. Spyro looked to the bottom of this oil-fall, where it had congealed into a gelatinous mass.  
White eyes kindled within the oil's dark depths. The thing within issued a drowned, guttural scream, and before he could react, the creature was on him, rattling his head with a rain of furious blows. Spyro lashed out blindly.  
The thing exploded in a splash of black.  
Spyro barely had time to orientate himself when he heard impossibly fast steps from behind. He caught a glimpse of the oil-creature right before dispatching it with a single swipe of his tail. It took Spyro a moment to place the shape of the thing, and then it donned on him. They resembled the flayed, ape-like creatures he had fought during the siege on Dragon City nearly a year ago.  
Spyro tasted copper and wiped his mouth. Blood streaked across the dark leather wrapping of his paw. Whatever these things where, they were far faster than their skeletal brethren, and they sure as hell didn't need crossbows.  
The dragon took his gaze away from the bloodied wrapping and looked ahead.  
The yawning oil-fall behind him had created a small, obsidian river down the right of the T-section, where it cut off from sight and flowed down a stairwell.  
Spyro's jaw tightened as he steeled himself. Slowly, he walked aside the river as he approached the stairwell leading to the lower level of the city. Spyro glanced down at the obsidian river.  
WARNING: HELL  
The image of the crucified dragon flashed briefly right before the Other appeared.  
"_Think about it, asshole_."  
The Other's image was replaced with the untainted Ignitus from Spyro's memory. Ignitus' despondent expression turned to terror as a seething, black liquid began to engulf him.  
"_If something happens to Ignitus, then you'll lose the only ally with knowledge of the Schism's infection_."  
White slits of eyes began to open like devils awakening in the dark. They surrounded Ignitus as he outstretched a pleading arm towards Spyro before sinking into the oily depths.  
"_And if that happens, you'll be left to find the answers all by your sad, little, lonesome self_."  
The eyes faded into the river.  
Spyro looked down the stairwell.  
His eyes traced the oil's path down the stairwell to a structure nestled between two, rotting, stone walls. It looked like some sort of chapel; a modest, Gothic structure comprised of a pale gray stone.  
The chapel had no door.  
Behind the chapel's long, rectangular window was Ignitus, his head down, his paw beating weakly against the glass. Spyro stared numbly for a moment before bolting towards Ignitus. The young dragon faced his friend from behind the glass.  
"Ignitus," Spyro said, his voice tremulous. "Is it you?"  
Ignitus' pounding stopped, and he raised his head slightly, revealing gold, bloodshot eyes. The dragon smiled weakly at Spyro.  
"Yes."  
Spyro was about to speak when Ignitus abruptly slammed his paw against the window. He gave a sad shake of his head.  
"Spyro..." Ignitus said, his voice wrenched with pain, "those spirits...Malefor..."  
_Those?_ Spyro thought, trying to identify which spirits Ignitus was referring to. Ignitus gave a shuddering breath.  
"He found a hole within them."  
Spyro shook his head. "Hole? I-I don't understand. What-"  
A muscular, dark blue forearm shot out next to Ignitus' head, shattering the window into a storm of glittering shards. It wrapped around Ignitus' neck and ripped him back into the chapel's dark depths. Spyro cried out, reaching for his friend, only to catch the lingering warmth where Ignitus had stood.  
Spyro knew who it had taken Ignitus.  
Malefor had been the only other "purple" dragon. And yet, something wasn't right.  
_No...No, Malefor would have stood twice as tall as this chapel. But the horns, the scales..._  
Spyro began to tremble.  
In that moment Spyro felt tired, so very tired. He could not face Malefor again, not alone. He wanted nothing more than to deny the price of morality, but he couldn't. He kept seeing Ignitus' sacrifice over and over, seeing the last of Ignitus' life force encompass him and Cynder and carry them across the field of fire. Spyro remembered him saying:  
'_Spyro,Cynder...I've never done right by either of you_.'  
Spyro lifted his limbs over the sill of the shattered window and crossed the threshold.  
'_My path ends here. But yours lies beyond this_.'  
The interior of the chapel was drenched in that black, oily rot. It stretched and dripped off the walls and ceiling in thick, sluggish downfalls. The oil seemed to devour light, catching what little there was and reflecting it in small, weak shimmers.  
The ground beneath Spyro's feet squelched below his footfalls, a filth that seemed to permeate his being just by touching it. He could make out the vague furnishings of the room, but they seemed little more than darkly outlined shapes amongst the liquid black. The room smelled of an unnatural combination; the decomposition of a carcass along with the coppery, scent of blood and gunpowder.  
Spyro stilled his steps.  
An oil-slick creature swung from the ceiling into Spyro like a fresh hangman victim, its long muzzle snapping at Spyro's face as it issued a metallic, chittering screech. Spyro sank his talons into the creature's burning eyes, and it howled in a pained fury. Spyro reared his head back and rammed it against the creature's head.  
The thing burst open and splashed upon the floor.  
Spyro immediately looked up for anymore of these threats. As he collected himself, he saw that the creatures were scattered about the ceiling in pulsing, gurgling cocoons, waiting for him to get too close. Spyro inhaled deep, summoning the last of his magic, hangover be damned.  
A bellow of flame roared forth from his maw, and the creatures screeched as their cocoons burst open. They hit the ground with a smack, their thin forms convulsing and bubbling as the flame consumed them.  
Expressionless, Spyro watched as, one by one, the creatures' death songs were snuffed out by the rapacious flame. Silence fell again, and Spyro continued his progress through the hellish room.  
Spyro exited the room, and looked right. To his right was a descending ramp, and looking over the ramp's rail, Spyro could make out two smaller rooms opposite of him, illuminated with a hazy, amber light.  
Spyro descended, his eyes roaming for movement, thought it was hard to tell with the constant flow of oil streaming down the walls. Somewhere in the distance, Spyro heard a deep, rhythmic murmur of machinery interspersed with a cackling, banshee scream. Spyro reached the bottom of the ramp and turned left, and found that there were two rooms built in below the ramp itself. Spyro trudged through the black muck towards these rooms.  
He entered the first one, and could not stifle a cry.  
A metal lamp illuminated the remnants of a dragon atop a blood-soaked gurney with a red, glaring light. Spyro, to his morbid curiosity, found himself inching closer to the corpse.  
There was a methodical certainty to how the dragon had been dismembered. Its jaw had been neatly removed, its chest-plating wedged open, revealing the dead machinations of the dragon's innards.  
Its eyes were gone.  
Spyro backed away slowly from the corpse, as if a sudden movement would spring the butchered dragon to life. He turned his attention to the adjacent room. The dragon there had suffered a similar fate, though its dismemberment had been of the arms and legs.  
Its eyes were gone.  
Spyro turned to assess the other two rooms. He peered into one. The dragon's head had been scalped, its horns and dorsal littered about the room.  
Its eyes were gone.  
Spyro reeled from this room and into the other.  
The scales of this one had been picked out one by one, the work of a sadist with a horrific patience. The dragon's flayed body gleamed crimson beneath the lamp.  
Its eyes were gone.  
Spyro retreated, his heart rattling. As he looked to the end of the room, Spyro was suddenly hit with a wretched pain, as if his stomach had started to cannibalize itself, his head swimming in a sickening daze. Spyro collapsed, and his nostrils were immediately assaulted by the black, cankerous substance. He dry heaved as the reek of rot and metal invaded his senses. He scrambled to his feet, fighting his dizziness and wiping the substance from his face. It took a moment to clear his eyes of the oil, but when he did, he found that his vision had hazed, as if he were seeing the world through brackish waters.  
Quick, sharp breathing cut through the panicked fog of his mind. Spyro whipped his head towards the sound. Down a narrow corridor, he saw a red shape writhe on the obscure outline of a gurney.  
Ignitus.  
Spyro sprinted, barely finding footing upon the slick floor. Every muscle cried out in resistance, his every step a toll upon his body.  
_Damn, damn, damn, I spent myself. I have no magic, how can I save him if I have no..._  
A hulking, dark creature loomed over Ignitus' bound body. Its horns shone like silver, its gleaming chest plate streaked with red. The bone structure of its face had been replaced with hinges and cylinders of steel sewn into place by bloodied tendons and sinew. It put a clawed paw upon Ignitus' shoulder, the gesture disturbingly assuring rather than threatening. Its other paw opened to reveal talons like scimitars, crusted in crimson.  
He heard Ignitus speak softly.  
"Please," came the hushed, shaky voice, "No..."  
_Bastard_, Spryo seethed. _You can't break him, no one has broken him_.  
The sanguine, mimicry of Malefor looked up at Spyro and smiled indulgently, as if mocking his thoughts. The hollow sockets of its eyes became alight with pure white. It looked down upon Ignitus, its long talons prickling the air like the legs of an arachnid.  
Ignitus' last words came to Spyro's mind:  
'_Draw strength from each other and follow your heart..._'  
Malefor sank two talons into Ignitus' eyes.  
_'It will never fail you'._  
Ignitus' and Spyro's screams became as one, a song of the failed and the fallen.  
A sharp, vicious blow to Spyro's side knocked him into the wall of the corridor. Spyro fought for breath, but found his inhalations impotent.  
The hooded, black-bedecked man loomed over the young dragon, smiling ear-to-ear, as if a knife had carved the mirth into his face. Shadows crawled across his flesh as he raised his pipe.  
In that moment, a strange sensation came over Spyro. It was as if he had been underwater, swimming up from the depths of his vision and breaching reality's surface. The inky darkness behind the man was suddenly flooded with a billowy, red overcast, and before the man could strike, his weapon was stripped from him by an unseen force. The man cast his confused expression to his right. Spyro followed it.  
And briefly wondered if he were still in the vision.  
Cynder and Hermit were poised some six yards away. Hermit had his staff pointed at the man, with the man's pipe held in his other hand. Cynder's face was veiled in wisps of smoky black rising up from between her bared teeth.  
"_Back. Off_," the black dragoness snarled, her turquoise eyes narrowed into deadly slits.  
The man, if anything, looked amused as he brought his hands up defensively.  
"_Hey, we were just havin' a little fun. That's all_."  
"FUN MY ASS!" Sparx hollered. "CHEAP-SHOT MOTHAFUCKA! I WANT MY MEAD!"  
The man winked, and then blurred towards the fence and effortlessly vaulted it.  
"MEAD!" Sparx lamented as he threw up his arms.  
Cynder moved to pursue, only for Hermit to hold out a halting hand.  
"Let him go."  
Cynder gawked at him."_Let him go?_ Are you insane? That...thing nearly killed him!"  
Hermit looked towards the direction the man had sped.  
"He's not important. Besides, he's not the only with a grudge." Hermit cast Spyro a brief glower.  
Spyro was beside himself. His mind was a maelstrom of emotions, all of which were vying for dominance.  
The three of them approached Spyro and looked him over. While Hermit was indifferent, Sparx and Cynder were unnerved by Spyro's condition.  
"Spyro," Cynder said, her voice disquieted. "My god, you look like you've been through hell."  
Sarcasm came to the forefront of Spyro's mind.  
"Hell? Oh yeah, terrible this time of year. I'd try the fall season."  
A wan smile formed on Cynder's face.  
"Just when did you get a sense of humor?"  
As if catching himself, Spyro quickly turned bitter.  
"I wasn't joking."  
Cynder tried to hide the sting.  
"I didn't mean to-"  
"I know you didn't," Spyro snapped. Deep down, he didn't want to be that cold. Deep down, however, he remembered the hurt, and his instinct would not permit weakness.  
_The world is hungry for you Spyro. Remember that_. Spyro winced.  
_But she just saved-  
And she can hurt you in ways no tooth and claw can.  
Doesn't mean she will...  
Do you really want to take that risk?_  
"If you don't mind," Hermit interjected, taking Spyro from his thoughts, "we came here for a purpose."  
Hermit took from his robe a translucent tuning crystal and handed it to Spyro. Anxiously, Spyro clenched the tuning crystal and did his best to empty his mind, thus permitting himself to be the tuning crystal's recipient. The message played:

"...NOT FORSAKE HIM! SPYRO TRUSTED YOU!"

A wailing shriek heralded the message's end.  
"We're sorry to spring this on you," Cynder said gently,"but do you know who that voice belongs to?"  
Spyro was silent. Cynder canted her head.  
"Spyro?"  
Spyro said nothing. Sparx chimed in.  
"Spyro?"  
Spyro cleared his throat, and did his best to omit the guilt from his voice.  
"It's Ignitus."  
"Ignitus?" Hermit exclaimed. "From beyond?"  
Cynder shook her head.  
"Ignitus," she said with a worried tremor. "Oh god, what happened to him?"  
Spyro's mind replayed the talons into Ignitus' eyes. He wiped a paw down his face. He wouldn't accept that.  
"What I wanna know is," Sparx put in, "is why the hell those Cheetahmen listened to that creepy-lookin' bastard back there."  
"What Cheetahmen-" Cynder asked, and then stopped as she absorbed the carnage Spyro had wreaked. While Cynder had more than once been death's vassal, it had always been against a clearly defined enemy. Seeing the eviscerated bodies of her former comrades brought a heavy guilt to her heart.  
"This looks-" she began faintly, her eyes tracing the gore as if it were some elaborate painting, "personal."  
"No shit it was personal!" Sparx said, "They tried to kill us!"  
"That's not what I meant," Cynder said. "It's just that-"  
"It's just nothing," Spyro said, his brow furrowed. "Kill first, or rot in something's gut."  
Spyro, while surprised by his own words, didn't find himself regretting them.  
Cynder looked uneasily at Spyro. "I know that well Spyro, but that's not a reason to be-"  
"BE. WHAT? CYNDER?" Spyro felt his head pulse with a red anger.  
Cynder flinched, the words hitting her like sharp blows. A moment passed, and Spyro collected himself. He tried to talk, but the words couldn't come out. His hurt and weary expression spoke for him.  
"I know Spyro," Cynder consoled. "Living here would wear thin on us all."  
"Especially without mead," Sparx grumbled.  
"Can we finish this reunion?" Hermit demanded as he eyed the corpses. "We need to report Spyro back to Terrador immediately."  
Spyro cringed. "For what?"  
Hermit turned from Spyro, shaking his head and striding away from them. Cynder glared at Hermit, her expression softening as she faced Spyro.  
"The Schism isn't very choosy about its victims," Cynder said, beckoning Spyro along as she walked. "Hermit has had to fight his kind more than once. Hunter hasn't fared any better."  
Spyro's interest was piqued at the mention of the Cheetahman.  
"What's his situation?"  
Cynder looked doleful at the question.  
"I think you two will have a lot to share."  
"Tell me there's mead there," Sparx said. "Between that gore-fest and then Spyro passing out like a beat bitch, my head's about to evacuate the premises. "  
Spyro gave Sparx an irked look.  
"Nice, Sparx."  
As Spyro left the fenced area, five ethereal beings manifested. The tallest of them, a sinuous dragon with three horns and a steel jaw, spread his wings slowly over his abominate kin. The four dragons below stretched an arm towards Spyro, their bodies a patchwork of blood-slicked flesh, scales and metal.  
Spyro felt the back of his neck tingle. He spun around.  
No one.  
Spyro was unwilling to believe his lying eyes.  
"Spyro!" Sparx called out from in front of him. "You aight' man?"  
Spyro, still looking back, shook his head.  
"No. I'm not."


End file.
